


insomina.exe

by ghostforests



Series: The Boys Who Are Awake [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged up characters, Child Death, Death, F/F, F/M, Gore, Homicide, I'm Sorry, Jean is Sad, M/M, Marco is dead, Maybe Sexual Content, Multi, Tags May Change, This is very dark, Torture, Tread Carefully, eren is done with this bullshit, like a kid dies and stuff, reiner is, sorry guys im back to the angst I lied, this is pretty graphic, tw nightmares, vaguely confused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-02-15 08:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13027323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostforests/pseuds/ghostforests
Summary: Jean is having dreams. Well, not dreams, necessarily. Jean is having nightmares. To be very exact, Jean has had 1,671 nights of nightmares, all of the same boy, all with the same theme. He won't stop dying. Life has a funny way of coming back to bite you, doesn't it?





	1. A Willful Ignorance (pt. 1)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so this is a thing I'm doing because it's winter and I need A Distraction. There will most certainly be playlists for this, organized on my spotify ghostforests. They'll all start with insomnia.exe and be chapter numbered probably, so check em out.  
> I'm excited for this! Buckle up y'all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The red curtains pull back. The stage is set, the audience is hushed, and the lights are down. Now what do we need? Ah yes. The characters.  
> Let us begin.

It is two o'clock in the morning.

Seven year old Jean Kirschtein is blearily staring out the living room window of his family's brownstone. He knows he is the only one awake, his eyes the only ones on the dimly lit street below. There is no moon tonight, he notices. The street is awash with only the dim orange light of the ancient lamps lining it, the world outside the thick pane of glass silent but for the sound of his own breath coming back from the window. It fogs up the glass the tiniest bit, just enough to annoy an impatient child. He rocks back onto his heels in his place on the window seat, eager to see whatever is on the other side of his little world.

In one moment, there is nothing below. The street is a vacuum in space and time, dead silent, waiting for something or someone to come along so it may swallow them up and hide them away forever. The whole world feels tucked in, fast asleep under the blanket of clouds spread across the light polluted sky. Not even an alley cat stalks along the sidewalk, aware that tonight belongs to something else much, much more sinister. From his perch, Jean is blissfully oblivious.

The moment is over, passing quietly away, and Jean is looking to his left. Now, it seems, there's someone coming down the street. There is no casual stride behind this person's gait, they are just a blur in the distance, too far away for Jean to make out quite yet. But they are running, faster than he has ever seen anyone run on the playground ever before. There's something about it that makes Jean anxious, makes him shift on his seat but doesn't allow him to look away. Somewhere in his mind, he notices the atmospheric change, feels whatever this is be set into motion just as the stars have predicted. Recognizes that this is an age old chase, one of predator and of prey. But that is nothing a seven year old could really understand, not even in the middle of the day. He moves closer to the window, breath fogging it again, but he can't bring himself to care this time.

The fast pace has brought them closer to him, close enough for Jean to work out that this stranger appears to be another little boy. Even though Jean can't hear his footfalls, he can imagine them, one after another beating down on the pavement in quick succession. He has yet to stumble, but Jean is vividly reminded of the hazy nightmares in which a monster is chasing you, but you just cannot run quite fast enough to escape it. However, you are also not slow enough to be caught, until of course you trip and the monster is upon you in the blink of an eye. Jean always awakens before any real harm can be done, his young brain incapable of imagining true horror he has never seen or heard. Tonight, he has the sick feeling that he is about to witness what exactly happens when you don’t wake up. That is, unless he does something, but he is frozen to the spot. 

The boy gets closer yet, close enough for the small face in the window to discern shaky features on a blurry face. He looks desperate in a way that sinks down into Jean's bones and chills them, pace so frantic and unsteady Jean knows in his heart the boy is going to trip.

'Slow down,' he finds himself thinking. 'You can't let yourself fall. They’ll get you!'

The boy looks less like he's running towards something, and more like he's running away. This is something Jean can recognize, something he sees other kids do every day in playground games while laughing happily, running away from the designated tagger. But the look on his face tells Jean that if he doesn't get away, something far worse is going to happen than him being named "it" in a game of tag. And he isn't laughing. He just looks terrified.

Flying behind him in a wind he's created all on his own in his hurry is a windbreaker made up of rainbow colored patches. It is stained dark in places, and it dances unzipped around him in a way that seems almost inappropriately playful for the scene. It caresses his arms, threatening to wrap around and take his balance away. One of the sleeves of the jacket looks ripped, and his baggy jeans are dirty and torn, blood very visible on the skin of his left knee. His hands are moving too fast at his sides for Jean to see, but he is sure that if he stopped the same red would be easily spotted there.

The closer he gets to Jean, the more the terror on his face seems to grow. Jean still can't see whatever he's running away from (because he has to be running away, that's more than a theory, no child runs this way just for fun). He's running and running, sprinting a little past Jean's window now. His back is dirtier than his front, covered in something black that looks like tar. His dark hair is matted to his head, the hood of the windbreaker thrown out behind him in the wind with the rest. For whatever reason, Jean can't help but be transfixed by the boy's sneakers.

They’re nothing especially unique, just denim blue high-tops almost the same color as his jeans. The stand out difference, however, is how meticulously clean they are. If he was more awake, they'd look too clean, even to a seven year old. Seven year olds know how dirty sneakers get, especially when kids are wearing them. Everything is layering upon itself and his head hurts. Nothing about this feels right. Jean's never seen this boy before, he knows that. Not on the playground, or anywhere else.

As he watches his feet, the pattern of blue pounding on black over and over again, Jean feels hypnotized. He cannot tear his eyes away from the other boy, not even to blink. His shadow is long in the orange streetlights, running slightly behind him, and Jean can't help but think that if the chaser is going to catch anything, it's going to be that. Suddenly, the boy seems to trip. Milliseconds later, too fast to process the difference of time between light and sound, two loud bangs sound out across the street. They're loud even through the glass, but Jean doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. He's still suspended in time, and he can't look away from the event transpiring below him.

As he falls, the boy twists his head unnaturally, and suddenly, Jean has never been more sure, he's looking right at him. He can see the deep brown of the other boy’s eyes, and through the time and distance between the two of them he can see a calm sense of defeat settled down within them. Then, his cheek kisses the pavement, and all around him it begins to turn a darker shade of black. It seeps out onto the tar slowly at first, but then it seems to begin to spread in rivulets across the ground around him, faster and faster. He isn't moving, hasn't since he turned his head, but his arms are tossed out in front of him as if he expected to catch himself from this fall. It's a trick of the eyes, Jean knows, but it seems like the streetlight isn't touching him anymore, crawling away from something no other need bear witness to. The boy's eyes aren't closed like in the movies, he can see that even from here, but somehow Jean just knows he's dead.

When he sees the whites of those impeccably clean converse start to turn a sickening shade of dark red, Jean turns from the window and goes back to bed. He does not awaken his mother, because he has to be dreaming. Minutes after he's seen what has happened, he has burned this into his brain, convinced himself that he is suspended in a nightmare. Vivid dreams aren't uncommon for him, and honestly, how different is a vivid nightmare? Several minutes of silence later, filled with him holding his breath in expectation of more loud noises, he falls asleep.

Jean wakes up in the morning to go to school, and there's no one in the road. The pavement is as clean as always, dusted with a few leaves from the incoming fall, and his mother isn't gossiping about any dead little boys like he knows she would be. She has the TV tuned to the local channel, and the most interesting story they're airing is about a man who had recently died. He was in his later forties, however. Not a little boy any longer, except maybe at heart. On the radio on the drive to school, there's nothing, even though he listens extra carefully as he searches through stations. His mom gives him a sideways glance at his sudden interest in the news, but she’s more focused on the road and not being late to work. She chalks it up to him looking for a certain song, and doesn’t ask anything of it.

When he gets to school, Jean doesn't tell anyone about his strange nightmare. Even at seven, he doesn't have many friends. If he did, the lack of anything to confirm that this was real would surely discourage him. None of his teachers would have time to hear about his dreams, and Jean doesn’t care to have them treating him any differently than they already do. Left to only people he doesn’t know, Jean decides to stay quiet. It is odd to tell strangers about your dreams, troubling nightmares or not. He spends his day quiet as usual, and minds his own business. When he goes home, he decides not to keep looking for evidence. He knows there won't be any, and it was so long ago already in his young brain that it doesn't register as anything more than a misplaced fever dream in his mind. After all, Jean has things to do, pictures to draw, books to read. Before he goes to bed that night, he spends hours gazing out of the picture windows he was looking through the night before as a last ditch effort. As expected, nothing out of ordinary happens. He falls into a careless sleep, dreaming of nothing he can remember. No dead little boys, or especially loud noises appear in his dreams. 

The cycle repeats, and for the next decade, Jean rests easy and forgets all about the boy in the rainbow windbreaker


	2. An Intro To An Intro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, meet Jean. He's a wreck!

I don't wake up screaming, or crying, or by falling out of my bed. 

I come to with a strangled sound that comes out as some sort of a pathetic little whimper, and roll over onto my back. The dinky little ceiling fan in my tiny attic bedroom spins lazily above my head, doing a shit job of circulating the air, and I find myself wishing for the 1,671st time that I could sleep like a normal person. The wooden ceiling looks sort of like it’s soaking in the sunlight from my windows, and I breathe in slowly through my nose. I still feel sick to my stomach, and all I can do is grit my teeth and wait for the gruesome images to pass. Getting up and distracting myself with something would probably do me some good, but I can’t be bothered for at least a few more minutes. I reach up above my head and nudge my window open a bit to try and help the air flow. The breeze that comes through is somewhat warm, which isn’t really what I’m looking for, but I’ll take it over the stagnant air filling my room any day. I can hear the familiar sounds of cars and people drifting up from the street, sort of friendly in their mindlessness. I can feel myself sinking comfortably back into reality with all of the normalcy surrounding me, and I start breathing a little easier.

Lazily, I kick my blankets off. I’m careful to avoid covering my cat from where she is on the end of my bed, rolling around on the sheet like a dog. I can see her yellow eyes wide open as she rolls in circles, and I shake my head a little bit at how weird she is. Most cats are, by basic definition, weird. I’ll admit that. However, I’m not exaggerating when I say she is really odd. I’m starting to feel disgustingly sticky thanks to the humidity. It’s a welcome change from feeling disgustingly sick, though. I know if I try and procrastinate getting up by petting her she'll probably scratch me, so I swing my feet around to the floor and stand up instead.

The second my skin touches the floor, I hiss at how cold it is.

The damn thing is made of wood, I'm on the third story of our tiny little brownstone, and it’s the middle of the stupid Trost summer. It realistically should not be freezing, especially considering one glance at the clock on my desk tells me it is 28.8°C in the room already. The city of beautiful summers my ass. I take a moment to be annoyed that my desk clock also displays a temperature, but rich relatives are like 13 year olds when it comes to Twilight. Except instead of a questionable series they’re after, it’s eccentricities in any shape or form.

I shake the temperature of the floor off and pretend to be grateful for the wakeup.  
Weird stuff happens in our house all the time, so in my book a cold floor in the middle of summer really isn’t much. The clock also tells me it’s 11:38 (the one thing it actually should do), so I can’t really be complaining anyway. Avoiding the chilliness, I jump to the little rug in front of my mirror, trying not to take too much notice of my reflection while I rifle through the drawer next to it for a shirt. I know I’ll look concerning no matter what I do. I end up tugging on an old ass t-shirt over the idiotic horse boxers Eren got me from the bottom of the drawer, and step out of my sunny room into the very, very dark hallway.

Fuck.

Very quickly, I figure out that the light bulb is out again. Unfortunately, there are no windows in the cramped hallway. It’s a wonderful floor plan, really. Bitching to myself, I stumble through the dark a few feet to the right into the bathroom. It’s the only other thing than my room on this floor, and much hotter than it should be due to excessive insulation. Not today, though.

The room is blessedly cold against the heatwave outside that was seeping into my room already. Today is a day of inaccurate temperatures, I guess. At least it’s inaccurate in the sense that I’m not dying of heatstroke. I grab my toothbrush and try not to think too hard about my dream, even though it’s already coming back in vicious color in the quiet coolness of the room. My efforts don’t work. I've definitely had that one before, and I think about jotting down the general idea to see if anything changes when I inevitably have it again. I doubt anything will.

I’ve been having nightmares about this guy dying for about four and a half years. Usually, they’re always fresh sort of horrifying, but some of them come and go. I can’t help but feel like last night left me with something I needed to remember, but whatever it was slipped off my mind the minute I woke up. You would think that after this long, I’d have some idea about why it’s happening and maybe be able to stop it. All of the “professionals” I’ve met in my life think they started when I began to process my dad, to put it politely, leaving. Myself thinks that’s bullshit, considering I was never close with my dad and not really anything other than angry when he left my mom and I. I processed that a long time ago. Going by the internet, I can probably trace it back to pre-existing trauma. This seems similar to what I’ve been told, but apart from my dad there’s only one thing I can distinguish. I had this really vivid nightmare exactly once as a seven year old, about watching the same person die, and I guess it traumatized me somehow. At my best guess, my brain is now fixated on that, looping that dream in variations with him around my age. It’s the best I’ve been able to figure out.

Trust me, I don't know either. You can say it. I know it doesn’t make sense.

By the time I'm done brushing my teeth, I've managed to put the nightmare out of my mind. I couldn’t remember many details of it if I wanted to, and it's easy to let slip away. I flip off the light and pad down the stairs to the second floor. The TV is on and turned up louder than we usually have it. My mom must’ve kept it on when she left, which is kind of weird, but whatever. The curtains behind it are drawn, and the room is somewhat dark. I’m not sure what exactly is on. I think it’s one of those dumb “paranormal” shows. There’s someone on the screen yelling about how he definitely felt someone pinch him, definitely a ghost. I snort and change the channel absentmindedly, ready to keep up with the Kardashians. No matter how much my mother and my friends tease me, I’m too invested in the show to stop. My laptop is humming quietly where it waits on idle on the far arm of the couch. I open the curtains a little bit and walk over to the kitchen.

My mom has left one of her inspirational sticky notes on the counter. In her loopy handwriting, I can make out “Yolo: You only live once! Make it worth it!!!” and I wince. So soon after my dream, it feels a little bit in bad taste. Then again, it would be too soon any day following the past four years of nights. Also, my mom knows the definition of yolo, and felt the need to define it to me. 

Nevertheless, I leave it there, a bright spot of pink on our grey counters. Much to my delight, there’s one everything bagel left in the fridge. I was pretty sure I had finished them off, but I’ve never been so happy about being wrong. I pop it in the toaster and head back into the living room, yawning loudly.

I may have been lying a little bit about how much I let my dreams affect me. As I open my computer and thumb the trackpad, my screen opens to the same page it’s always on. Obits from 2004 fill the 7.5 x 14 inch display, thousands of names and even more short paragraphs that I’ve spent countless hours skimming. Here are some fun facts you may or may not know: as of 2011, an astounding 55.5 million people die each year. That adds up to something like 151,600 people per day, 6,316 per hour, and 105 per minute. About two per second, if you want to get that finicky. For people who speak slowly, it takes the same amount of seconds to say the damn word as the people who will die while you’re saying it. Talk about a tough audience. Anyway, I think it’s safe to say that is a whole lot of cadavers. Shittily enough, I didn’t exactly write down the date of this dream. I remember it was the month after my birthday, because my bunny had died, but that’s all I’ve got. You do the math. Worldwide, in May of 2004, four million, six hundred and eighty one thousand people died. I don’t even know where his death would’ve been recorded.

I am, essentially, fucked.

I don’t even really know why I attempt to find an obituary for this kid. As far as I’m concerned, it was a fever dream. In fact, even if it wasn’t, the odds that a kid murdered on a back street in Trost would even have an obit are ridiculously low. That hasn’t stopped me from searching, though. I figure the least I can do, if he was ever really out there, is find him. I’ve spent countless hours reading thousands of obits in any language I (or google translate) can muster. To be completely honest, I don’t even know what I would do if I succeeded in finding him.

I’m not even going to pretend to not be ashamed of the amount of time I’ve spent on this couch. I am very, very ashamed. Whenever my friends come over? Couch. Date? Couch. Research, or homework? Couch. I kind of hate myself a little bit for it. This thing is full to the brim with a collection of blood, sweat, and tears. The day it comes alive will not be a surprising one for me.

A couple minutes deep into couch contemplation, I hear the toaster go off in the kitchen. As I’m dragging myself up off of the cushions, I remember that I definitely forgot to take out the damn cream cheese. I curse a little bit over it. I get that not having cream cheese out and ready doesn’t seem like a big deal, get over your first world problems, Jean, Jesus, but listen. My mom keeps the fridge incredibly cold. Literally frigid, if you’ll excuse the pun. No matter how many times I complain that she’s actually making our milk develop disgusting little ice sheets, she refuses to change it. I can’t win. She says it keeps her precious roof garden vegetables fresh, and she’s not wrong, but it fucks everything else up.

Including the (frozen) cream cheese.

Considering my tiny crisis, you can imagine my surprise when I see the container sitting on the counter. I could swear fucking northeast and southwest that I hadn’t put it out, that I had only gotten into the fridge for my bagel, but I’ll shut up and count my blessings. I’m not gonna be pissy about having thawed cream cheese to mash happily on my bagel. I never really mastered the art of the butter knife, to be honest. But really, my mom and I are both pretty forgetful people. Stuff like this happens a lot to us. Me in particular, if we’re being honest.

A few hours later when my phone begins to ring, I’m still sitting on my couch. The bagel is gone and I’ve gotten through a decent amount of Kardashian episodes, but way less obits. I’m feeling too lazy to commit to reading them, and I planned on having the rest of the day anyway. The first, incredibly annoying bars of Pitbull’s Timber might be about to tell me otherwise.

I really hate the fucking song. The person who set it as that know this, and probably set is as such so I would be motivated to pick up as fast as possible and shut it the hell up. Out of spite, I let it go through to voicemail once, knowing the caller in question will just keep trying until I pick up or the phone dies. Or one of us dies, I guess.  
I suppose I could change it, but I know it’ll just be changed back the first chance available, and pointless circular gestures aren’t really my thing. Besides, it’s better than it was. Anaconda isn’t exactly my jam either.

I don’t bother shutting off the TV before answering, but I do close my laptop. I can’t place why, but it sort of feels like something I don’t want anyone knowing about yet. I spend a little too much time on this for it to be normal Jean-is-okay-and-doesn’t-need-therapy curiosity. On the fourth ring of the second call, I pick up. I’m feeling pretty considerate this morning, so I answer with all the cheer I can collect.

“No, Connie.”

Okay, maybe it’s not exceptionally cheery, but I know where this is going, and I’m not interested. Much to my dismay, I hear a voice that is definitely not Connie’s coming down the line. Oh, god.

“Hi to you too, Jean!! It’s not Connie, but he is here!” Sasha pauses, presumably to stick the phone in Connie’s general direction. “Say hi, Connie!” From somewhere distant, I hear him yell ‘hey, loser’, and I don’t have the motivation to do anything but roll my eyes. Sasha’s voice comes back, much closer.

“He’s on a ladder,” Before I can stop her to ask why the hell he’s on a ladder, she just plows right on through. “but that was an exceptionally rude way to greet a lady, I hope you know. And I also hope that since I’m not Connie, your answer to my not even stated offer might change!” I groan. She sounds way, way too hopeful.

“Sash, you know I didn’t know it was you. But my answer still stands, whatever your offer is, no, I don’t want to,” I pause, but before she can get a word in edgewise, I finish with “not tomorrow, either.”

I don't get out much, if we’re being honest. It’s not my favorite thing in the world in the first place, and I’m usually out of my element in some way. Also, I tend to be kind of a total ass when I’m irritated, and social situations are a perfect way for me to get from 0 to 10 in seconds. Especially if Jaeger is there.

“Jean. I understand that you're a weird social recluse, and from the bottom of my heart I don't care. But it's summer, and now you owe me a favor.” I wrinkle my nose. As far as I can remember, I’ve paid up on all of the favors I owe her.

“Oh?” I can almost hear her rolling her eyes over the phone. Honestly, it takes a weird sort of connection with someone to do that. And many, many years of being friends.

“Yes. Ancient customs say that if you’re rude to a lady you owe her a favor. And you were rude, and now you have to do my bidding. So ha.” She’s desperate, and I know that’s complete bullshit. Also, the countless images of Sasha stuffing her face with food and shoving someone out of the way to get to something first would be pretty valid challengers for her title of lady.

Unfortunately, my guilt over the amount of time I’ve spent on the couch today already (let alone this summer, Jesus) decides to bite me in the ass at that moment. And I really haven’t seen my friends in a long time. I breathe heavily out of my nose. I don’t even bother trying to fight back, because I know I’m going to lose the battle. Sometimes I wonder why I even try in the first place. I knew I was gonna cave as soon as the phone rang.

“Okay, m’lady, what’s the favor?” I put a little sarcastic emphasis on m’lady for good measure. I can’t let her win too much or she’ll get cocky.

“Okay??” The shock in her voice is not dampened by the layers of static and distance between us. I sigh. I don’t feel like acting out a John Green novel today.

“Yes, Sash. Hurry up before I change my mind.” She lets out a high-pitched squeal, far too excited for just hanging out with me. I’m starting to get suspicious, if we’re being honest. Absentmindedly, I run a hand through my hair, and cringe immediately. I really need a shower.

“Okay, okay! It’s a three part favor, so listen up!” She ignores my groan at the words, taking my direction to hurry a little too literally. She sounds like an auctioneer. “First, you’re going to let us pick you up. The longest you’ve got is an hour, cause we’ve gotta finish up here, but you better be ready at two.”

“Okay, I’ve gotta shower, so if you Snapchat me the whole time I’m not going to reply.” Her and Connie have a bad habit of doing that, and then showing up incredibly early because I’m not replying and they’re ‘worried’.

“I’ll accept that sacrifice, but your ass better be ready, Kirschtein. Part two is us picking you up and you pitching in to buy some snacks, and then part three is shrouded in mystery and you’re just going to have to come along for the ride and deal with it!” She’s talking fast still. Probably trying to get her plan out without a chance for me to object. Sasha’s smart, I’ll give her that any day. 

I decide that if I’m going to shower and I have an hour, that means less than 45 minutes in Connie and Sasha time and I’d better get going. Despite myself, I crack a smile. It’s really been too long.

“Cool. See you at two. I’m gonna go now and I’ll see you in an hour.” I hear her laugh and mutter ‘max’ under her breath before she bids me goodbye. I pull the phone away from my ear and go to hang up, though not until I hear her forget to put hers down and scream at Connie ‘he agreed!’.

I surprise myself by laughing after I shut off the TV. I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around getting out of the house after all these days of not setting a foot out of it, and it kind of feels good. For once in my life, it’ll feel awesome to feel a little bit more like a normal adult. I’ve got friends, and we’re gonna hang out.

It seems like a simple thing, but it’s slowly filling me up with excitement. I jump off the couch to go shower, phone already buzzing with Snapchats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is short and semi-slow, but it'll speed up soon! And then you'll wish it hadn't oops  
> (The chapters will get longer, I promise)  
> Also I'm sorry if there are errors my computer deleted half the file and I had to do it again  
> I'll fix the spaces I swear

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on tumblr  
> http://ghost-forests.tumblr.com


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